


Not Important

by Doitsuki



Category: Hatred (Video Game), Hatred - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Angst, CRAWLING IN MY SKINNNN THESE WOUNDS THEY WILL NOT HEALLLLLL, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Genocide, Kidnapping, Murder, Other, Past Domestic Violence, Torture, Violence, Weapons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 04:02:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5149550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doitsuki/pseuds/Doitsuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Summary is not important. All you must know is that this is the story of a man, a man of hate and disgust.<br/>[Backstory + Crusade adventures for the Antagonist from the 2015 game Hatred]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This One Guy

**Author's Note:**

> No controversy pls. I'm just here, writing about the Antagonist ('Not Important', though he's named later) and what he went through in life to make him who he is today. Yep, there are childhood flashbacks, and maybe a bit of supernatural bullshit.  
> :) If you're sensitive to subjects like the mass murder of innocents and indiscriminate hatred, perhaps do not read this fic.  
> 18+ only.

In the suburb of Edgerton within New York lived a man. The man was unknown, as he rarely left his house. There he sat upon his tattered couch, stewing in an all-consuming hatred. His couch had so many stab wounds it was literally falling apart but still he drew his knife across the tortured fabric. The ripping sound pleased him as he imagined slicing flesh. It was through these small acts of aggression that he could survive.   


Before him was a coffee table, low and scratched from years of abuse. Everything in the man's house bore the scars of his ruthless anger, a thing so turbulent he often released it without care. The tiles in the shower were cracked. Paint flaked from the walls where fingernails had scraped. The man hurt everything he came into contact with, but lay no hand upon himself.

He had experienced enough of that.

Sitting hunched over, he swept a bottle of beer from the coffee table into one hand. He hated how much he drank, how weak he was to the numbing dark. Alcohol was the only liquid he consumed aside from blood. He dreamt of the salty, rancid life of others filling the empty cavern of his stomach. Always he hungered, for death and pain. Sometimes for himself. Usually for the world.

Also on the table was a box of pizza. He hated the junk he consumed to maintain his tormented existence. Greasy and cheap food sustained him well enough, on the basest physical terms. He hated how it was making him fat, pushing him outside to keep what delusions of health he had left. His muscles yearned for brutality. Just thinking about squeezing someone's neck until it collapsed under his strength had his fingers twitching. Today however he could not be bothered, and sighed. In deep tones his voice rolled past thin, pale lips. With a toss of his head, he cleared long black strands of hair from his eyes. Everything about him aside from skin colour was black. His clothes - black shirt, black trackpants, and a long black trenchcoat of pure leather. His nails, blackened not by illness but by hard polish. His eyes, a reflection of the darkest malice festering deep within his soul. His boots, reaching up to his knees with forty tarnished eyelets. His weapons... a pistol, light machine gun, and the handle of his combat knife. The blade still shone bright silver. He polished it in his more peaceful moments.

Taking a swig of beer, he assumed his usual sitting position with elbows on knees, head hung. To anyone it would appear he was defeated, and indeed he felt a gasping chasm of hopelessness inside.  But this was only natural for him. To forgo all semblance of comfort and force agony into his neck. His neck was in fact the only part of him that still remained muscular, due to all the thrashing about he did.  Wild anger and headbanging aside, his shoulders drooped. The beer was tasteless as it had been for the past twelve years. The pizza had turned rubbery from lack of heat, and his knife had fallen into the couch again.

"Fuck."

 

 ------------------------------

 

The man had fallen asleep there, hunched on the couch with a grimace on his face. Once more his hair covered both eyes, darkening all view of the world. He liked this, as it made sleep come easier due to lack of visual stimulus. Just closing his eyes wasn't enough. He wanted the darkness to take him when they were open, too.

Grey circles dragged the man's lower lids down like smudged corpse paint. The only thing to offset his pallor and it /still/ made him look sick. Still, it made him look like enough of a junkie that when he went out, people avoided him. That was nice. Made it so much easier to keep from snapping their necks...

He woke with a start, gasping for breath. Instead of a yawn came a scream, the only way he knew how to fully wake himself. There was no lazing around to be done today. The moon dipped low to give way to the sun. Now was his time.

Out of the house he crept, running quick fingers through his greasy hair to keep it from tangling. Combing that shit out was so infuriating he often coughed up blood to get it done. Attached to the belt he wore around his waist was a pouch, containing his trusty knife. In the pocket of his trenchcoat he kept a few grenades handy and a pistol. The pistol was primarily for threats. Tonight he wanted a hostage.

The birds did not sing before sunrise, nor did they do so afterwards. Here in Edgerton, silence claimed the desolate streets. At this hour nobody was stupid enough to walk around, especially with the recent crimes taking place. There was always some scumbag ruining the world for everyone else - and the man in the trenchcoat saw all of humanity as that guy. How he hated them, and wished death upon their worthless souls!

One at a time he'd been kidnapping people, honing his stealth skills. Only when he felt ready would he begin his Genocide Crusade.... the adventure of his dreams.

A soft, cruel laugh escaped him as cold wind whipped his hair about. Who was to be his victim today? The day of reckoning was near. Perhaps this would be his last, before he became the walking apocalypse itself.

Down the street he walked, eyes scanning with purpose. In this suburb everything was so dull to him it seemed to be in monochrome. Grey roads, boring houses, black water... He'd never been to the city parts of New York but he assumed it was more of the same. Nothing interested him any more. Instead of being depressed however he set little tasks for himself, things that would reap the death he sought. There weren't any people wandering the streets this night.

'Time for a break in.'

  


For fifteen minutes he walked until he found a generic house with all the lights off. After trying to get in through the front door, he checked to see that nobody was around before kicking it down. He had quite a powerful kick and this one splintered the door into pieces as it fell down. Then he was still. From another room, a quiet rustling was heard, along with a creak. No voices. His victim lived alone.

The man pressed himself up against the wall, his heavy boots clunking against the hardwood floor.

"Who.... who's there?" A timid voice quavered from behind a door.

"Come out, come out wherever you are~" Both hands were free, ready to suppress whatever scream his victim unleashed. The lilt of song was in his voice, haunting and guttural. "Heh heh..."

"L-look, just take whatever you want, and leave me be..." Whoever owned the house whimpered in fright as the intruder stepped close. Using that pathetic voice as a location device, the man approached. Hurried footsteps retreated just as the unlocked door was shoved open. The man lunged to capture his victim, slamming all three hundred pounds of his weight into what happened to be a young male. Before any screams could escape, a thick hand went over the guy’s mouth and forced him to be quiet. Bundling up his kicking captive under one arm, the man flicked his hair back and sped out of the house. Back to his own at 606 Coldsteel Avenue he went. The captive was sobbing against his hand, teeth sinking into the hardened flesh. The only response given was a jaw-crushing _squeeze_.

Down into the basement, the man carried his prisoner. Huge and expansive, it boasted an underground shooting range complete with filing cabinets full of supplies. Military supplies, mind you. Grenades. Flashbangs. Molotovs. Ammo, _so much ammo_. Then immediately to the left at the bottom of the stairs was a rack with every type of gun available in New York. Only missing some specialty equipment from the military, the man’s arsenal was not something to scoff at. His captive fainted at the sight.

“Perfect. Now I just have to tie him up…” Monologuing out loud in his thick, deep voice, the man turned right and went down a small corridor. Right again was a room with little in it – a cheap light fixture dangled from the ceiling and spread stark white light when turned on. The captive was left in there on the floor, tied at the wrists and feet. He was to be played with later. There was training to be done before the sun came up.

The man stretched a little, vaulted over a pile of boxes and slammed his fist into the wall behind him. The hallway was barely lit, but he knew his way around well enough to need no lights. He had little money to pay electricity bills and the like. What cash he _did_ have was stolen. He needed it to buy weapons and care for them, which he did better than for himself.

Next to where he’d punched the wall was a rectangular cutout with a small ledge. On the ledge was a pistol , which he picked up and pointed through the hole. He fired a few shots at the head of a distant target and was pleased to hit his mark.

“Yeah, that’s good. Soon… **my genocide crusade begins.”**


	2. Eat a Snickers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smol child is angry, full of hate, and very good at remembering things. I wonder why?

At exactly 9:23 AM, the man in black scraped weapons off a table to the right of his front door. As he did so, he said his daily affirmation.

“My name is not important… what is important is what I’m going to do.” He stuffed four grenades into his trenchcoat, followed by his sharp knife.

“I just fucking _hate_ this world and all the human worms feasting on its carcass.”

Into his coat went a freshly loaded machine gun.

“My life is just cold and bitter hatred… and I always wanted to die violently.”

He thought of exploding in a shower of blood, yet no smile graced his lips.

“This is the time of vengeance, and no life is worth saving.”

His cold, dark gaze went out the window. How many times had he stood there, watching through the horizontal blinds, looking at the outside world?

“…and I will put in the grave as many as I can.”

Morning came with a drab grey cloud cover and a hundred percent chance of death.

“It’s time for me to kill… and it’s time for me to die.”

Not Important felt a rush of adrenaline surge through his body the moment he stepped outside. Gone was the supremely grungy interior of his house. Now, the world cringed before him.

With his equipment hidden, he stepped through the door and took notice of all the people just waiting to die. There was a bus stop right outside his house, where a few guys waited. The man went into his coat to remove his pistol, but stopped upon sight of the arriving bus. It paused before him and he gazed at the advertisement on the side. A skull with question marks around it was depicted in lines. Above, text read _‘Feeling unusual? Come talk to us. Free counselling sessions from June 1 – 15!’_

Today was the thirteenth, and the day of his genocide crusade. However, while fully armed and hungry for death, the man wondered. He’d heard of counselling and shrinks in general throughout his life, having constantly been referred to them but not once accepting the offer. Now it was presented before his scowling face. Somewhere in the city, there was someone who would listen to him for free.

_‘I suppose a little detour wouldn’t hurt. Besides… there’s much more opportunity in the city. Heh heh heh…’_

The bus drove off before the man could get on, speeding away as if eager to get away from him. His hatred surged forth in a growl of anger, hands tightening into fists.

“Now I have to _fucking_ walk. Rrgh.”

So he went, down the street and around the blocks he knew marked the end of Edgerton’s suburbs. The train would take him to Yonkers and the Bronx, but where he really needed to go was the self-help center of New York. In time he got there, worn out by the stupid faces of people all around him, people he could not yet kill. He at least wanted to give the thing he’d been hearing about for the past thirty years a try.

The building he saw was flanked by a plastic surgery place and gym, in shades of grey like the rest of the world. Upon entering, the man received far too many stares of disgust and not fear like he desired. He stood at 6’4 with a few extra inches of height from his combat boots, trenchcoat silhouetting his broad figure in total darkness. The only light upon him was that which bounced from the bulbs above against his greasy hair. That, and his whiter-than-your-average-white-guy face.

The receptionist eyed him with caution.

“You there, are you here for the free sessions?”

He nodded.

“Room 302 is available now… right down the hall, there.” Reluctant to guide him, she gestured. He walked and deliberately slowed to eye her, a sneer curling his lips. She averted her gaze at once.

 _‘Mn… this shouldn’t take long. It’s been a while since I’ve been to town... there are such lovely potential corpses just lying about. Everyone here’s dead on the inside. I can feel it.’_ The man went to the room assigned and didn’t bother to knock as he opened the door. Inside was a thin, wiry man with sparse brown hair and a pointy moustache. He wore a vest of atrocious colour and rectangular glasses, distinguishing him as a person of high intelligence. He smiled.

“Hello there. I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before… so you automatically qualify for a free session. Isn’t that great?”

The man in black stared at him for a moment, before slumping into the couch opposite. It was so much more comfortable than his own… and he hated it. _‘Stupid rich people and their nice furniture.’_

“I’m Dr Johnathan, PhD in psychology and neuroscience. Here to talk about whatever you want, Mr….” Two hands gestured, asking a name of the man without one.

“My name is not important.”

Johnathan only smiled. “Nathan Portent?”

“….Yes.” Nathan knew that name. Every time he’d had to introduce himself, his words were always twisted. Every human had their label, and this one (that he’d desperately tried to avoid) was now stuck on him. He remembered when his teachers had called him that. Sometimes he believed it to be a part of his identity, mistaken and crude. What kind of last name was _Portent_?

Leaning back with a satisfied look, Johnathan picked up a clipboard from beside him and wrote on it. “Alright then, Nathan. Is that ok? Can I call you that?”

“Whatever, sure.” Nathan flapped his hand dismissively. _‘I don’t give a fuck. Get on with it.’_

“Okay. Now, is there anything on your mind? Would you care to tell me… how you’re feeling, first of all?”

“My life is just cold and bitter hatred.” _‘I feel like I’ve done this before…’_ Nathan felt the hardness of weapons within his coat against his thin shirt and remembered his purpose. “I want to exterminate all the worthless fucks on Earth, and then myself.”

Johnathan looked incredibly sympathetic, and Nathan knew it was forced.

“Oh… I’m so sorry to hear you feel that way. Would you like to talk about where this hatred comes from?”

Nathan shrugged, annoyed. “I’ve never _not_ felt this way.”

“Not even as a child?”

Silence took place of hastily spat words.

“…..Not even then.”

“Tell me, then. Tell me about your childhood.”

Nathan hunched over on the ridiculously comfortable couch and spoke. “There’s not much to tell.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first memory Nathan had was of a bright hospital room with screaming in his ears. His mother screamed in anguish, while he did the same just because he could.

“What a disgusting little thing…” his father grumbled, just loud enough for him to hear. Nathan did not yet understand language, but found familiarity in the biting malice of that voice. He thrashed around as if having an epileptic fit, and the nurse holding him nearly thew him across the room.

“A.. ahh, Miss? Are you going to name him?”

Nathan’s mother was too pained from shitting out a demon child to give a fuck. “NOT IMPORTANT. GET ME SOME MORPHINE, DAMN IT!”

The nurse in her frightened hurry wrote down “Not Important” on the official papers at hand. Those papers were filed away and considered legitimate, though they meant nothing to the new parents now faced with shrieking child.

"Can't you tape its mouth or something?” The father (who we’ll call Siegfried) covered his ears, unwilling to do anything more. The shocked nurse shook her head and placed little Not Important into a blanket-covered box. It muffled his cries somewhat.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

“Yeah, I remember when I was born. Worst fucking day of my life. Condemned to live, just like every other mindless shit.” Nathan wrung his hands at the unwanted memory. “Damn, why the fuck did you make me remember that?”

Johnathan was confused for moments until remembering he couldn’t just call bullshit. “Come now… you can talk about another time if you like. What about later, say… when you were four, five? Do you remember back then? What were your parents like?”

 _‘Oh, here we go.’_ Nathan’s nails dug into his palms to ease his apparent stress. _‘I’m not even gonna question this… if it’s got no legit outcome, then I’ll slaughter this smarmy fuck.’_

\------------------------------------------------------------------

In 1988, Nathan was four years old and only just learning about the world. He lived in a small house at the outskirts of Edgerton with his parents, Siegfried and Barbara. His parents were misanthropic nihilists, and the most intense in all of America.

“Mother, what’s for breakfast?” Nathan as usual had awoken to the sound of conflict and tugged at his mother’s sleeve, seeing as she’d finished beating her husband’s face in. Barbara fixed her beady black eyes on her son’s little face and snarled.

“It doesn’t matter, we’re all going to die eventually.”

Nathan frowned. “But I’m hungry…”

“Go eat fucking rice or some shit! I’ve got better things to do.” The boy was left with a shrill voice ringing in his ears and a few blonde locks of hair on the floor. His mother had been losing a lot of hair lately. He wondered if it was all the bleach she drank. His father meanwhile was out cold, bleeding in a crumpled pile near the fridge. Nathan dared to poke him and once more acquainted himself with the scent of blood. He’d learned to distinguish the metallic, salty tang between who shed it and how long it had been left uncleaned. Things in this house were often left in this state. The stains were what made the place homely.

\--------------------------------------

 

“They fought about the most retarded shit. My parents were idiots, what more do you want me to say?” Nathan had fixed his gaze at the ground and allowed his eyes to move out of focus. Johnathan had a feeling Nathan’s parents were at fault, as they often were with screwed up adults. He’d passed his own judgement on the man before him. Now, he made a comment.

“It seems your family life was very hard. When did you start school, Nathan? How was that?”

“Oh, _god._ ”

\-----------------------------------------

“Get dressed, boy.” Nathan’s parents never referred to him by name other than insults and vague terms. “You’re going to get an education.”

Five years old and struggling with the buttons on his shirt, Nathan looked up to his mother for help. She was busy lining rails of cocaine with the edge of her credit card.

“I… I don’t want to!” _‘Schools are where they shove a lot of people in and force them to listen to adults… adults are never right. They’re stupid. I don’t want to do this.’_

“Oh?” Barbara lifted her head, curls of hair trailing in the white powder. “You wanna fuckin go, do ya? Eh?”

“N-no, that’s the point, I _don’t_ want to go…” Confused, Nathan backed away from his increasingly livid mother. He managed not to trip on the scuffed, bloodied and burnt carpet but soon felt a door behind him. Said door swung open and Nathan fell against his father’s legs.  
“Hmngh?” Siegfried recoiled in disgust, looking to his wife. “What, he’s giving you trouble?”

“The bastard doesn’t want to go. After all that paperwork we signed…!”

“Listen here you little shit.” A fierce grip nearly choked the life out of Nathan, who would have gladly welcomed it. “You’re not important in the slightest but I’ll be _damned_ if I raise a dumbass dole-bludging deadbeat. Make like the other kids and GET DRESSED!” He threw his son to the ground, barely missing a table’s edge. On the floor with pain striking every nerve, Nathan curled into a ball.

“I fucking hate you…” he whimpered, holding the sides of his shirt closed together. “You, and everyone else. Why don’t you just… leave me alone…?”

“We hate you too, you ungrateful cunt. Now get up before I cut your sniveling face off.” There was no love in Barbara’s eyes as her overly made-up face came close to her son’s. Nathan was going to school, even if he had to be dragged kicking and screaming.

The fuss continued all the way to Doritus Elementary where in time, Nathan had finally reduced his voice to a raspy whisper. His throat ached, and a random teacher was kind enough to give him water. He’d never had much interaction with adults besides his parents before and a few relatives, and assumed he was going to be poisoned.

\----------------------

“Ah ah, stop right there.” Johnathan put one hand up. Immediately Nathan went on alert and tensed. “No, calm down… I’m sorry I interrupted you. Can you elaborate on your relatives, please?”

“….Do that again and I’ll blow your fucking head off. My relatives…” There was a distant, lonely look in Nathan’s eyes much akin to that of an angst-ridden teenager posting crying selfies to instagram for attention. Johnathan had hit the emotional jackpot. Or at least, he thought so.

\----------------------

It was during some holiday neither Nathan nor his parents gave a shit about that relatives were encountered. A mix of Europeans all living in the United States, they’d come to one house for the purpose of festivity. Said festivity was no forcibly joyful affair – rather it was a mature mingling of tired middle-aged folk. And young Nathan, just a few months past four.

His aunt Hilda’s house was absolutely fucking massive, all modern minimalist in the same boring black and white. It bore the signs of severe OCD, floors so polished they were beginning to degrade and things organized to the point of obfuscation to the average onlooker. Nathan sat in front of a spike-covered stereo, listening to the house’s ambient track : various types of metal. Currently playing was something powerful from Blind Guardian, with words he could actually understand.

 _‘This is nice. Whoever’s singing is really energetic. I wish I had a voice like that.’_ He was busy bobbing his head to the music when a shadow came over him. At once he jumped up, afraid.

“What do _you_ want…?” There was a strange look in the man’s eyes, this tall, dark figure towering above Nathan. “And… who are you, anyway?”

“Oh, don’t be scared. I’m your uncle Vito, from your father’s side.”

Nathan was silent. _‘Is he going to hit me?’_

Vito gazed at the child with pity. Like the rest of his family he had no sense of ethics or morals, but couldn’t help feeling sorry for Nathan. It was a secret, what Nathan was supposed to be. Vito truly sympathized with his brother Siegfried for what he had to go through. _‘It must be hard to neglect such a cute little face.’_ Unwilling to see Nathan trembling before him, Vito bent down and gave the child a gentle hug. He felt how Nathan stiffened and released him after a few seconds, smiling just a tad.

“What… what was that? If you’re going to strangle me, you do it with your hands, not your arms.” Nathan shivered all over, thoroughly unused to such close and harmless contact.

“Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t hurt you.”

The hopeful child in Nathan’s pliant mind opened up to possibility. He glanced around before asking, “Really?”

“Of course! You haven’t done anything wrong, and I do believe even the lightest touch would send you to the floor.” Vito ruffled Nathan’s hair, again with extreme care. “You look rather… fragile. Have your parents been feeding you enough?”

Nathan shrugged. “I don’t know. What’s enough?”

“Three meals a day, or as much as you need to not feel hungry.”

“…” _‘That actually makes a lot of sense. But, it’s hard for me to get food… there’s not much in the fridge.’_ Nathan’s internal conflict was noticed by Vito’s ever-seeking gaze.

“Hey. As long as you’re here, you can eat whatever you like. Your cousin Matthias is a chef, you know! He’ll make you food you’ve never even dreamt of.”

“Like… peanut butter and jelly sandwiches??” Nathan had only heard of the American dietary staple from TV and his dark eyes brightened with optimism. It was then that Vito knew he was going too far.

 _‘Mustn’t birth hope in the child. No no, I don’t want to undo His work…’_ Vito smiled thinly. “Whatever you like. Just be nice to him while he’s holding the knife, alright?” Foreboding warned of ill fate in his smooth voice. Once more, Nathan was afraid.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens. Just a tad.  
> Btw the shrink is Johnathan Twinkletits from Metalocalypse with a different moustache LOL

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't say it was gonna be good. LOL


End file.
